


here are your upturned hands

by bakeoff



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Anchors, Dissociation, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, M/M, Martin's relationship with hands, Peter Lukas (Terrible Divorce Man Supreme), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, and to an extent scars, the Lonely as a metaphor for dissociation and depersonalisation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22577578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakeoff/pseuds/bakeoff
Summary: Martin Blackwood reminisces loneliness, love, and touch.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood & Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 5
Kudos: 92





	here are your upturned hands

Martin remembers a highschool classmate from shortly before he dropped out. They were probably around seventeen back then; she was a small girl for her age, with freckled bronze skin and generous amounts of kohl lining her eyes. Her name might have been something like Dania-- or a name along those lines, at the very least.

There isn't much he remembers from his academic days-- sometimes, he's not sure if it's the consequence of time doing its thing or a conscious effort to drown his own memories in the fog.

Still, Martin thinks they were on good terms, and it's hard to forget the tone of her voice when she turned to him after the final bell tolled and said, conversationally, that she bought her mother a ring for the burnt hand she didn't like. 

_"Hands are sort of intimate, don't you think?"_ He remembers the small, obsidian box in Dania's hands, cradled between her palms like a holy book.

_"You touch and feel and perform with them. They make so many choices that make you who you are. It's important to understand that such a part of you is loved."_

There was a gentle conviction to her words that struck him. He thinks that the faraway smile she gives the box is what really got him, in hindsight, a gesture so transparently loving that the softness it engendered in his chest was almost frightening.

That night, Martin returned to their small home with its cracked bulbs and cobwebbed corners, the sentiment pressed to his heart. He remembers that the warmth of it had made him-- honestly, he... isn't sure what he was feeling. He supposes at the time, it felt like an answer. An epiphany he's been given. 

And so when he slowly opens his mother's door that night to bring her her meal, he pauses at the doorway just a touch longer. And, as he always does, he gives her hunched silhouette a loving smile. When Martin moves across the room to sit timidly at her side, he is struck again by how small she is beside him, though her hardened eyes outgrow anything that Martin was, _is_ by far. 

She looks away. Tells him to leave. And Martin expects it- he doesn't pretend not to see the book's spine twists and contorts under her grip, but her lips are a firm, hardened line that is easy to pass off as a result of mild annoyance rather than blatant displeasure.

Martin puts down the lunch tray he's prepared. He tells her about his day, and about the things he's learnt. He is quiet and patient, even when he recognises the tension in her grip with concern. 

Maybe he should have been grateful that she'd indulged him so long. That she gives him time to list off events he knows she's not listening to, before she soundly slams her book shut. Breathes quietly. Whispers weakly, as though pleading with an executioner, _"Please. If you have any love left for me, you will listen."_

Her old hands are tight around the old synthetic sheets, book niw discarded. He feels, all too soon, as though his mother's hands had clenched into fists around his own heart so that for a moment, it almost stammers to a stop.

Martin takes his mother's hands in his and turns them over, aching with something he can't name when she lets him, albeit trembling. He considers the scars that cut a tapestry into her pale skin, and thinks that he is breaking, that the warmth he'd tried to engineer was but a raging furnace rearing up to swallow him. There is one scar in particular, long and jagged, scaling up the back of her hand and gliding far under her nightgown.

Whether the kindling that becomes a bonfire is the fierceness of his love or his concentrated anger at the man who's done this, he still cannot tell. Most likely, it's both. He forgets his own scars, then, and forgets for a moment how to be hurt at the seething look he's pretending his mother isn't giving him, and he only thinks of being good to her. That she is good to him, too.

Martin says, "Of course I love you. I-I'm sorry." And then he says it again, because it doesn't feel right the first time. He wants to take her pain into his open palms the way he's taken her hands, and so he apologises like it will erase her scars, until he finds a calm to the consumptive flame inside him.

He can't tell what he's apologising for, but it simply makes sense to. Looking at the raw feeling stirring in his mother's eyes, he feels like he has wronged her. Feels he must love her enough to remedy his shortcomings.

Martin tells his mother he finds her hands beautiful, and she makes a choking sound like her lungs have been robbed of the air within them. She grips his fingers hard enough that the skin splinters and parts and bleeds, and Martin gasps, drawing in a shuddering breath. He doesn't pull away. Makes his arms still boulders and waits until she's calmed.

She cries, _"How dare you? How dare you, you cruel thing?",_

Through the fog of pain that steals his thoughts, Martin wants to tell her he's sorry again, as if this time, both of them might be able to _understand_. But instead he moves to still her trembling hands when they're tired of clawing at his arms, and looks her in the eyes (She isn't looking back. She never is) before kissing each hand once, chaste and sincere.

He wore long sleeves to school the following day, but he supposes it never mattered much. It was only a semester after that he never came back at all.

.

Tim suggests it first. 

There is a large park across the street from the institute, a quaint thing with white fences circling the premises and rows of thick barked trees looking over structurally planted patches of blooms. Sometimes, when the weather was nice, Martin's coworkers took to having little picnics there, unrolling mats under the shade and conversing over baskets of snacks and food. 

Pretty and lovely as the park is, however, it isn't what staff tend to gravitate to during their time off, because across the street from _that_ is the solace of every full-time institute employee- _The Cafe._ It might have once had a real name, but everyone who works at the institute simply knows it as _The Cafe,_ and exclusively that. It was a small locally run buisness tucked in between a retailer and a bread bakery, and despite its humble appearance, it was like an oasis for overworked otherwise perpetually exhausted staff in need of a good brew to keep them going.

As it is, though, there are 6 minutes left of their break, according to Sasha's Tweety Bird watch, and though they usually spend it in the company of one another and steaming disposable coffee cups, they'd gotten caught up with work this time.

Tim is having none of it, though. He is all broad, cheeky grins and playful eyes and solid determination and, apparently, an unearthly thirst for coffee.

"Better make the most of it!" he huffs out a laugh. "Additionally, I think my favourite barista's on duty this Wednesday, and I'm pretty sure I have an actual shot at asking them out."

"Wait- hold on," Martin starts to say, but already Tim's tan hand is in his and holding tight. It's slightly larger than his own, soft and steadfast. There's a tattoo there-- pink carnations exploding from the side of Tim's left palm all the way across the back of his hand, their stems entwined around his knuckles like green string. Martin only just notices that he's wearing black nailpolish. Tim gives him an exaggerated pout.

"Indulge me, Blackwood. A man needs his coffee. And a date. And time away from that dingy old building."

Tim gives him a pointed look until Martin can practically feel himself cave, his resolve crumbling and dispersing in the form of a heavy sigh. Awkwardly, he reaches out his other hand to an amused Sasha, who takes it. Hers is smaller than either of theirs, with neatly trimmed nails and the faded remnants chipped blue on some of her fingers.

Martin says, "This really isn't- you're sure we won't be late? Jon needs us to-"

"Jon is exactly the reason we're going!" Tim insists. "You really think I can deal with that man unless I've got _at least_ a decent shot or six of pure caff in me?"

"Tim," Sasha chides, but she's doing an awful job at extinguishing her growing smile. Martin's turn to pout has come, and something defensive claws its way up his throat.

"He's really not that b-" he starts to say, but the words are lost to the wind when Tim starts to sprint.

Martin stumbles at first, the surprise leaving him lost for breath, but he's tall and swift enough that he manages to catch himself quickly.

Beside him, Sasha's starting to laugh as she falls in line with them, their joint hands tethering them together. The mirth of it mingles with the ceaseless song of the swallows circling their heads the instant they enter the threshold of the park, sifting through the trees above. It isn't long before Tim catches up to Sasha with a cackle so loud and careless that for a moment, it's easy forget that they're three adults running across two streets and a park at midday for medium sized caramel macchiatos.

Martin feels concave and vast and endless, the wind howling through his hair and the long grass tickling his ankles, the smell of something that resembles mint and lavender making him dizzy. He barely registers his own breathy laugh letting loose and reverberating warmly through his chest.

After an eternity condensed into a minute, the three of them stop, breathless and dizzy, giggling like children. Martin's cheeks are flushed pink and his chest is heaving with unsteady breaths. The warmth barricades through his veins until it's all he can feel, and he doesn't know what to do with all the fondness that pools into his heart when he finds his own smile reflected on the faces of Sasha and Tim.

(Martin wonders if they realised that sometime during their run, their fingers had laced together in an effort to keep their grip one another steady. He can't help but miss the affectionate silliness of it when they seperate at the counter.)

.

In retrospect, it makes sense that he's chosen this place as an exercise in loneliness. 

Martin's never been a fan of galleries and other atmospherically higher-class ceremonies, not that he's ever really been a regular attendee. He remembers having to sneak into one for a follow up on a particular statement once, feeling the anxiety simmer at the pit of his stomach, lurching like a violent wave that didn't have room to crash and dissipate. Not there. Not then.

Martin's not unused to feeling out of place, but he feels _especially_ so here. Every passing second increases the itching urge to fade into a corner until the world can't recall the memory of his presence no matter how far it reaches.

"The Lonely's primary associations are human isolation and loneliness," Peter says lightly, putting a hand on Martin's shoulder.

Martin wants to shrug it off; the mere sensation of it sends shivers down his spine, and he feels the cold of Peter's touch even through the stiff, smooth cobalt blue of his suit jacket. But he doesn't. Something keeps him in place, swallowing in the empty air rather than holding his breath. 

Instead he just huffs, self-consciously making to run long fingers through his hair before he remembers that- oh. Right. 

He's not used to wearing his ponytails with a ribbon. It feels… fragile. Like one wrong move could make it come undone. Martin's hands fall to his side and curl into fists. 

"...Yes, Peter. It's called the Lonely. You know, regardless of how naive you might think me, I _do_ have basic comprehension skills."

Peter grins at that. The wave rises to Martin's lungs and becomes an ocean, but it feels less like he's drowning and more like he's already gone, cold and numb without the desperate hope of finding a surface to keep him struggling.

"Of course, of course. It's just crucial that you understand the simplicity of the Lonely before we delve into the intricacies of it, Martin. You see, isolation is so much more than just physically being away. I'm sure you already understand the concept of emotional detachment, seeing how well you've been performing it yourself."

Martin doesn't think of Jon. Can't afford to think of him. He sees the bait that Peter has thrown him, and refuses to cut himself upon the hook.

A beat of silence passes.

"See! Excellent. I'm so proud of you," (Martin rolls his eyes). "But isolation can transcend even that. The purest kind of loneliness can be reaped in instances where it is most vulnerable to breaking." 

Peter hums. "You might think that silly and contradictory. After all, places like this make you uncomfortable, don't they? Your natural instinct to abandon ship should only make the Lonely closer, more solid…. however, it's actually ludicrously simple, in a room so full of the tier of people you feel anxious merely being in the same room with, to have _one_ positive encounter that shatters your perception. Proving yourself wrong is tediously within reach- the act of being apart is dancing the line between its most potent and its most fragile, and making connections is just tantalising. You could do it right this instant, in fact."

Martin's eyes are fixed on his polished dress shoes. Peter doesn't need to finish his sentiment.

_But you won't._

He doesn't stop talking, though. Martin wishes he would.

"Loneliness is a conscious decision, Martin, and I think that's what makes it so special. In a way, those touched by the Lonely choose it just as it had chosen them. In the end, deluding one's self into the believing in things like genuine connection without the motivator of ulterior intentions or bias or, godforbid, something as blatantly self-serving as the idea of _love_ , is simply your decision to make. In the end, the loneliness is no one's doing but your own "

Martin doesn't think of Jon. He can't let his own selfishness get in the way when he's so _close-_ but he allows himself to recall a stark contrast to Peter Lukas' hand on his shoulder. One that is warm instead of biting, thinner with longer fingers and indented with a story's worth of scars.

He lets the thought carry him until it turns to mist on his tongue the moment his mouth nearly betrays him with the memory of what it is to smile. The flash of recollection- the involuntary twitch of his lips, a ghost of what might have been happiness blooming in his chest. He kills it because he knows he cannot have it.

Back to The Lonely he goes, then, and back into this unfocused present. To the heavy presence of Peter Lukas' pale, rough hand- a hand which turns Martin around to face him.

The minglers and wanderers of the crowd are talking, but their words don't register. Martin thinks this was meant to be some sort of charity gathering with good folks, generous folks. He can't remember anymore. He doesn't care. All he feels is a distant lull of nothingness, and the vague sense of displacement. He thinks there might be music, because the bodies around them are moving in sync now, the shadow of what could be amusement cloaking their elegant movements. But he only hears static.

Peter Lukas is even taller than Martin. Not by much, but it's notable enough to unsettle him, even in his haze. It strikes Martin then, fully, how inhuman he is, ageless and framed by chandelier light that makes the blond of his hair appear a metallic platinum-gold and gives the blue of his eyes the quiet, icy quality of an iceberg floating adrift the Arctic seas. Waiting.

His touch feels like everything and nothing all at once when he reaches for Martin's hand, and Martin sees that there are scars there, too. Still, he only feels smooth, unmarred skin when Peter's hand closes around his own. And he lets it, and watches him, and feels like he's watching nothing and no one at all. Revels in how non-existent he feels at the moment, like a body without a core, seeing but not processing. Not really.

Peter presses his mouth to the back of Martin's hand. He says, rather cheerfully, "Well? May I have this dance?"

But really, he is telling him, _Can you feel it? Can you feel how lonely you are, so Lonely that the only thing left for you to turn to is a monster?_

If he had cared enough to feel anything then, Martin would hate him. 

But he feels nothing, as it is, and so he pulls his hand away and gives Peter a blank stare.

"I get it," he tells him flatly, and feels the ocean in his lungs freeze into a glacier. "Leave me alone."

Peter watches him in silence, like he's reading him. Then, he beams. 

"Wonderful! I was hoping we wouldn't have to cover the crippling isolation of incompatible dancing today, but good pupil that you are, it seems you're past that one."

Martin shakes his head, the quip falling short for him. The action doesn't feel like it's his. 

"Please," he says quietly, but it's not really him speaking. "Just take us back. You've made your point." 

Martin doesn't think of Jon. Not exactly. He is the fog itself then, widespread and incorporeal, without thought and feeling. But he knows that he does this for him while adrift, as he lets the tendrils of frost spread bitter and fast until they envelop what could be called him entirely, until his breath comes like silent hale, sharp and sudden.

He allows just one though to be his anchor in the fog. Martin will let Peter Lukas think he won for as long as he needs if it means Jon will be safe from another threat.

(And maybe if he focuses on the imagery of darker, smaller hands embroidered in scars and burns and nicks, he can pretend that he's fooling The Lonely into thinking it has him, too.)

.

The Lonely is gentler than its calling, loud enough to drown out thoughts that didn't have the face of fear and quiet enough to make room for the silence of emptiness.

Perhaps Martin has misjudged its nature when he thought it a stormy sea. Instead it's like a tide that comes gently, sweeping you further away into the ocean's body the more you let it. He remembers Peter telling him, _Loneliness is a conscious decision._

And there's no reason for a man who's already drowned to cling to land, so he lets The Lonely have him.

But it is then, in the midst of its embrace, that Martin is thinking of someone.

And he shouldn't be.

There is a warmth that doesn't belong here, like a summer mist wallowing through the nothingness. It is distressing, he thinks, and compared to the soft lull of numbness, it _burns._

The thing he might have been is saying words that feel true, but he can't himself over the static. He only wants to be alone. He only wants to disappear.

_"Martin. Martin, look at me. Look at me, and tell me what you see."_

His head hurts.

Nothing should hurt here. It shouldn't. To hurt is to have a body and to perceive- to exist enough to miss, to love, to mourn.

(Martin is thinking of him.)

The static seems to scatter. There is the pressure of something painfully careful cradling his face, rough and strange and burning hot. And all too suddenly, he can't think of anything but that feeling. Martin can find neither the tide which had pulled him nor the shore.

So instead he focuses on the scarred hands that anchor him first, and then the equally scarred arms that hold them still, and then he is thinking of _Jon,_ and he is saying _"I see you, Jon. I see you."_

And he does. Jon is looking up at him, his face softening into a look reserved for someone real, and he draws Martin close against his chest until he can't hear the Lonely's call over the sound of his own sobs.

Martin takes Jon's hands in his and turns them over. Like he can thaw out the cold if he keeps them close enough, and carve a pocket in between their bodies where the winter and harm cannot reach. Like he can heal them. He wonders how long it would take to count and trace the scars, and aches at the mere thought of it. 

Hasn't Jon been through enough? Haven't _they_ been through enough?

Nowhere is safe anymore, Martin thinks. Not even here, right now. He is weary of fear and cannot remember what it's like to be without it. But he sees Jon, who is looking at him, wide eyed and waiting, and knows to tune out the static that tempts him.

Jon is drinking the moment in. There in his eyes is a touch of something erratic, and it's starkly out of place on his features, fixed in a now permanent expression of wonder and terror.

Martin is scared for him. So he pulls Jon's hands up to his lips and kisses his knuckles.

Jon is watching him, melting into something more along the lines of curious and soft, his gaze switching between Martin and his own hands. 

"Thank you," he says, and sounds as sincere as he is hoarse. "...Why?"

Martin wants to tell him, _Because I love you. Because it wasn't your fault that he did this to you. Because I'm so scared, and I know you must be, too._

Instead he laces one of Jon's hands with his and gives it a squeeze, and wonders if, for all his knowledge, Jon knows that here, at the world's end, Martin loves him so much it leaves him breathless. That his hands have pulled Martin through sea and fog, and that he never intends to let them go.

**Author's Note:**

> do you ever just cry about these boys


End file.
